GONE is the spire that slept for centuries,
Whose image in the water, calm, and low
Was mingled with the lilies green and snow,
And lost itself in river mysteries.
The church lies broken near the fallen spire;
For here, among these old and human things,
Death swept along the street with feet of fire,
And went upon his way with moaning wings.
Above the cluster of these homes forlorn,
Where giant fleeces of the shells are rolled,
O'er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn,
The wounded saints look out to see their fold.

And silence follows fast, no evening peace,
But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes,
Haunting the slender branches of the trees,
And settling low upon the listless plains.

[Lines dedicated to one of her priests, by whose words they were prompted.]
[Reprinted by permission of the Proprietors of Punch.]

LAND of the desolate, Mother of tears,Weeping your beauty marred and torn,
Your children tossed upon the spears,Your altars rent, your hearths forlorn,
Where Spring has no renewing spell,
And Love no language save a long Farewell!

Ah, precious tears, and each a pearlWhose price—for so in God we trust
Who saw them fall in that blind swirlOf ravening flame and reeking dust—
The spoiler with his life shall pay,
When Justice at the last demands her Day.

O tried and proved, whose record standsLettered in blood too deep to fade,
Take courage! Never in our handsShall the avenging sword be stayed
Till you are healed of all your pain,
And come with Honour to your own again.

IN that Valhalla where the heroes go
A careful sentinel paced to and fro
Before the gate, burnt black with battle smoke,
Whose echoes to the tread of armèd men awoke,
And up the fiery stairs whose steps are spears
Came the pale heroes of the bloodstained years.

There were lean Cæsars from the glory fields
With heart that only to a sword-thrust yields;
And there were Generals decked in pride of rank,
Red scabbard swinging from the weary flank;
And slender youths, who were the sons of kings,
And barons with their sixteen quarterings.
And while the nobles went with haughty air
The courteous sentinel questioned: "Who goes there?"
And as each came, full lustily he cried
His string of titles, ere he passed inside . . . .

And presently there was a little man,
A silent mover in the regal van.
His hand still grasped his rifle, and his eyes
Seemed blinded with the light from Paradise. . . .
His was a humble guise, a modest air—
The sentinel held him sharply: "Who goes there?"

There were no gauds tacked to that simple name,
But every naked blade leapt out like flame,
And every blue-blood warrior bowed his head—
"I am a Belgian," this was all he said.
Men's cheering echoed thro' the battle's Hell.
"Pass in, mon brave," said that wise sentinel.